The Lie of Silence
by Queen of the Red Skittle
Summary: Pre-movie. Thor and Loki go on a dragon hunt.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing

**A.N: **Written to the soundtrack _The Thin Red Line _by Hans Zimmerman.

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One man looks at a dying bird and thinks there's nothing but unanswered pain. That death's got the final word, it's laughing at him. Another man sees that same bird, feels the glory, feels something smiling through it.

—Witt, _The Thin Red Line_

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The Lie of Silence

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.s.

It was Thor who went to his brother after the feast and announced, "I am going to hunt and slay the dragon Dómhildr."

Loki drew himself out of the atlas of Gunnungagap slowly, to give himself time to regain patience from being interrupted. It was night in Asgard; beyond the marble pillars and the beaten gold leaf lay the vast expanse of sky and constellations, and beyond that, the Bifrost shimmered like the scales of a galactic fish. The balmy night air billowed and tugged the silken tapestries, smelling as sweet as incense. Warm orange light filled the room from the flickering, eternal torches. The faint sounds of merrymaking and laughter was still able to be heard despite the distance Loki's chamber was to the feast hall. He leveled a look at his brother and knew at once Thor was serious about going on a dragonhunt: his chest was puffed, his eyes were smiling, and faithful Mjölnir rested in his hand. It was how his brother held Mjölnir that told Loki of Thor's eagerness to kill Dómhildr: he held the hammer low on its handle, rather than near the actual weapon itself. It was a warrior's grip, and as the dark-haired god composed his thoughts, he could almost smell Thor spoiling for a fight.

"Really, brother?" he asked, trying not to appear too interested. "At this late hour?"

Thor laughed a hearty, booming chuckle that seemed to fill the room. He made his way closer to his brother, his armor gleaming in the firelight. "Not quite. We would leave at dawn, as Huginn and Munin take flight. We head for Niffelheim. That is where she dwells, near the Elivagar."

_Niffelheim. _The lowest world of the Nine, filled with mist and ice with soaring mountains and foggy steppes. It didn't surprise Loki in the slightest. His oaf of a brother loved difficult challenging and daring feats of strength, and this was no exception. _He probably got the idea planted in his skull by the Warriors Three, _Loki thought with no small amount of bitterness. He had planned to journey to Nidavellir to see if he could barter trade with the dwarves, but he knew Thor would beg for him to join the hunt until he relented. Though Loki knew his brother loathed to admit it, his skill in sorcery came in handy more often than not, and while encountering a foe as deadly as the she-dragon Dómhildr, a little magic could go a long way. Why kill the dragon in the first place, Loki knew reasons mattered little with Thor. He was becoming convinced this whole thing was made over a stupid boast, and he could feel his irritation tighten his skin. He closed the atlas and stood up. The leather chair creaked its protest but soon fell quiet as his velvet feet took him to the centre of the room. His evening ware hugged his lithe form in contrast to Thor's massive bulk.

"Come with me," Thor said. "It would do you good to get some fresh air and get out of this stuffy room." He glanced at the dusty tome Loki had been reading and fixed him with a meaningful look, as if to say: _See my point?_

"And if I had planned other business?" Loki asked, adding a touch of frost to his voice as good measure.

If his brother heard it, he was impervious to its bite. "What business could be more important than slaying a dragon? Brother, they'll sing songs about us! And this is Dómhildr we are speaking about, no mere wyrmling. I heard she's as black as ebony and vicious in strength. Even Father battled her on the plains of Vigrid."

Loki sighed. He decided to ask, even though he already knew the answer. "Have you told Father about this?"

Thor shrugged, his unarmored arm flexing as his shoulder rose and fell in a careless motion. "Can you imagine the honor he will bestow upon us when we bring him the dragon's head? His expression?"

Loki's mouth twitched upward, but he turned his head to avoid showing Thor the humor didn't touch his eyes. Yes, he could imagine the Allfather's expression on his face when Thor presented Dómhildr's head: upset at first that Thor would undergo such a dangerous undertaking without telling him first, but then fiercely proud that his son returned home with such a marvelous prize. He would beam and parade Thor around like some prized stallion, while Loki would be passed along as his brother's shadow. Oh, he may've helped pull down the dragon, but it would be Thor and Thor alone who would receive the credit. Something bitter and unhappy twisted inside his guts, turning the little food he ate into aching stones. This sensation was happening more and more of late, and a part of him wondered if something was wrong with him. But he couldn't let Thor see these thoughts, so when he turned again to face his brother, he was all wry smiles.

"I suppose you're right, brother," he said, and the genuine happiness on his golden-haired brother's face pushed some of the bitterness away. He blinked when Thor enveloped him in a full-armed hug, something neither of them did since they were young. Loki was close enough to smell the roasted boar and honeyed mead on Thor's breath and musky sweat from his skin. When Thor pulled away, the blue in his eye was dancing.

"Wonderful!" Thor said. "Prepare yourself, brother, for a wild fight! We leave at first dawn."

"Will your faithful Warrior Three and Sif be accompanying us?" Loki couldn't help but ask, lips twisting in a disagreeable quirk.

"No, Loki, this glory will be for us alone," Thor said, then he was gone in a billow of red cape and stomping feet, leaving Loki slightly disheveled and wondering what in the Nine Realms did he just got himself into.

.s.

Unease is a rare sensation for one so old as I, with its vague tendrils of wrongness and whispers of danger. I have not felt it since Nithhöggr first gnawed on the roots of Yggdrasil deep in the centre of Asgard. I raise my head from where it was submerged in the river's freezing water and look out through the cave's mouth. Niffelheim's mists cover the frozen steppes in an icy fog, as bluish as a dead man's fingers and as twice as silent. The fog clings to the mountainsides, as if trying to climb higher, but the craggy peaks are indomitable. Their jagged edges, unclimbed, imperious, soothe the strange unrest in my heart. Why did I wake? I flare my nostrils and drink in the frozen air. The scent of corpses from Nastrond are faint in the dead wind. But it's the scent of life, of heat and vitality, that renews my odd malcontent. It is slight, almost a whisper, but I smell it. It is a scent I have not encountered since my battle with Odin and his ruthless Aesir: Asgardians.

Something is rumbling, deep and terrible, and as I listen to it in awe I realize it is myself that is snarling. I shake myself free from the river and snarl again, enjoying the ringing sounds echoing off the cave's rocks. I peel black lips from blacker teeth and in a single shudder dislodge the forming icicles. The warm rush of anger is enough to push back the undercurrent of anxiety in my breast until it is nothing but a shadow. Living Asgardians, here, in Niffelheim? There was only one reason they would be here: to kill me. It is only logical. I, being of the same mold as the monster Nithhöggr, should be undoubtedly a prize for some strapping buffoon with thoughts of glory. I, with my dark scales and blacker teeth, would become a lovely chainmail or warrior's shield. I have seen such fates befall my other kin, those too young or foolhardy to emerge victorious from battle. I myself was once young and hotheaded, filled with the lust to strike and feast and kill. The countries I have burned! I was a terror on Midgard and hated on Svartalfheim. It was then I learnt that all actions have consequences, and that consequence was named Odin, Lord of Asgard. It was with he who confronted me and wrought terrible vengeance. I managed to flee for my life, and flee I did. Since then I have learned to kill in stealth, to destroy with cunning, and though I have survived these many long years, I have never out-grown my hatred for Odin and his accursed people.

In my youth I would have unleashed a horrible bellow, a _dreki_'s challenge of pumice and fire, to signal my eagerness to fight. I have not lived this long without destroying my enemies, but Odin, damn his one eye, taught me well. I emerge from the cave carved within the mountain side and blink against the pale morning light. Light is rare in the realm beneath Helheim, and I wonder if these hunters knew this. Steam rises from my nostrils and coat my muzzle in glittering hoarfrost. My claws bite in the rocky scree beneath me and I resist the urge to roar. I instead launch myself off the cave's mouth and feel my body hurtle towards the fog-covered steppes below. Then my wings unfurl and my death is stopped. I shoot like an elf's arrow down to the barren ground and let myself bleed into the icy fog. I brace for a landing and rear high as cascades of dirt kick up. I snort and shake my head. The smell of Asgard is stronger, and I am surprised at how much black hatred roils in me. I want to gnash my teeth at these so-called heroes, but I know how much sound carries, and I have made enough noise as it is. I crouch down and stalk towards the smell of my enemies.

It is not to long before I notice something different: the smells have changed. Where I had once thought were just Asgardians, I can now sense another creature, one I have not scented since my younger days. I pull up short and suck in as much air as I can. The scales on my back bristle and hackle at the aroma of deep primal forests and frost, and as I lift my head to breath deep, saliva pools in my mouth and crystallizes before it touches the ground . A Jötun, alongside an Asgardian? It makes no sense. Since time before time the Jötuns and Aesir have been vicious enemies, and when Ragnarok falls, it will be those two people that will destroy each other. But then I notice it is not strong. The stench of an Asgardian masked it. A Jötun, trying to hide his nature? Or was he planning to kill the Asgardian in some vile double cross? Or were they truly companions, and this quest to slay me enough to bring them together? I crouch lower in the fog, senses straining. It is then do I smell something that lifts my hackles and churns my heart: Odin's blood. As realization hits I freeze in a paralysis of fear. There was only one being with a scent like ozone and light: Thor Odinson, the god of Thunder himself.

Sounds grow curiously faint as I understand the implications. Thor, like his father, is known throughout the Nine Worlds, especially for the destruction he could entail with his hammer Mjölnir. He could strike Nithhöggr dead with one blow if he so chose. I clutch low to the rocks and let a ripple shiver through my scales at the thought of my potential death. Suddenly the cold fear turns hot and savage, like the breath from a volcano's maw. So, the son of Odin decides to pay me a visit? An anger towards the boy's arrogance fills me with loathing. Though I had killed and destroyed plenty in my youth, I never did it for glory or for attention; this one killed for sole purpose of it. Some of my anger turns inward. Suddenly I wish I never descended from my lofty cave. I know if I try to escape, try to fly, Thor and the Jötun would undoubtedly see me and launch an attack, and thus ruin my advantage of surprise. I have no choice but to lie in wait, terrified and bristling, for the battle sure to come.

By now I can hear the vibrations of booted feet on rocks. They are approaching me, unerringly headed my way. Soon they will be in my dragonsight, which pierces the mists of Niffelheim with a falcon's ease. I can hear them. Their voices are low, but I can hear those vibrations as well; they thrum in the air as if on cords towards my straining ears.

"You sure this is the right way?" the Asgardian—Odinson—asks his Jötun companion. I bare my teeth. An Odinson? With a Jötun? I wanted to laugh.

"I'm sure, brother," was the answer. _Brother?_ I have but to wait a heartbeat before I see them. I instantly recognize Odin in Thor, and I sneer at my enemy. He is everything I have heard about: the golden mane of hair, which in chilled dead air appears pale and washed-out; the strong Asgardian features, taut now with a hunter's focus. The crinkles near his eyes suggests a happy spirit, accustomed to getting what he wants, familiar with laughing and brawling; the broad shoulders, covered in a royal's armor; the red cape, which limps after him; and Mjölnir, clutched in his hand. I regard the son of my blood enemy for a moment longer beforeI turn my dragonsight to the frost giant. He is far slimmer than Odinson, his movements reminiscent of the wild felines of Midgard. He is tiny for his kind, a runt. He is clothed in the fashion of Asgardians with their mixture of leather and armor, but unlike Thor, armor does not bristle from him. It is then I see the enchantments, like a second skin, masking his fearsome true nature. His hair is the colour of my scales, and instead of blue skin, he is sallow in the gray of Niffelheim. His eyes sear across the fog like mirrors, reflecting the mists in their pale depths. They should be gleaming red, but they are not. I do not move as they pass over me.

They are walking side by side, close enough to brush shoulders. Their companionship can only hint to a close one, like friends, or brothers— The insight hits me like one of Mjölnir's lightening bolts._ You probably planned this, _I think._ The Jötun most likely does not know it is a Jötun. What will happen if he finds out? What will happen then, Odin?_

I cannot contain myself. I laugh.

.s.

Thor tensed beside Loki and half-crouched in a fighter's stance. "Did you hear that?"

"Of course I did," Loki said, equally as taut. From the moment he stepped onto the steppes of Niffelheim he could feel the unnatural chill tug at his neckline and whisper against the hairs of his nape. The proximity to Helheim, the world of the dead, plucked at the strings of his sorcery, ghosting on the edges of his awareness. He pulled his leathers closer around his throat, his gaze straining to pierce the soup of the fog. His brother hadn't imagined it: it had been a soft, wet sound, like a saw cutting against rotten timber. He knew the mists warped distances, but even to him it sounded close. He tightened his grasp on his magic. His heightened tension made it unruly; it yearned freedom, coiling and warming his fingertips. He drummed his fingers in the air. Thor glanced at him.

"Here," Loki said, "let's see if we can do something about this mist." Brow furrowing in concentration, he twisted his hands in an arcane pattern, drawing from the well of magic deep within his solar plexus. He felt the magic leaving him like a green, static-charged breeze, and with a deep breath cleared a wide expanse of space. He had just enough time to stare in the cadaverous visage of the dragon's face before Thor threw him to the ground. A rippling wave of scorching heat blasted overhead, liquefying the air into steam. The moment the dragon stopped to regain her breath he was on his feet. Thor was a little ways away, looking a little singed but no worse for the ware.

The stories did the dragon justice: Dómhildr was black as the ebony jewels noblewomen wore, but there was nothing lustrous or noble about the creature's countenance. Pits and scars marred the savage muzzle and exposed ligaments gave the dragon an unnatural leering, devastating appearance. The rest of her was lithe and sinuous; unlike the ponderous and bulky dragons Thor sometimes battled, she was of an older breed, closer to a serpent than her later cousins. Her body constantly shifted like an obsidian rope as she speared the two brothers with her volcanic gaze. The eyes were as blood-orange as the volcanic maws of Muspelheim, filled with a savage intelligence, and Loki found himself drawn to their roiling depths. In the cold, aloof part of his mind he remembered reading in his books that should Thor kill her, he would taste her blood to gain the knowledge of birds.

She peeled back lips to reveal gleaming black teeth, as a wolf would do, and said, "Welcome to Niffelheim, Thor, son of Odin."

Thor laughed in delight, his mirth ringing and challenging. "So you can speak! Excellent!"

Loki tried to edge out of the fray, towards the mists to help Thor from the shadows, but Dómhildr's entire body went still as she suddenly focused all of her attention on him, as if she knew his intention. Her nostrils flared. Loki held himself very still. In his head he ran through different spells to aid him, particularly the spell of illusion. He tensed, readying himself to make the illusion switch, never losing eye-contact with the dragon.

Her eyes narrowed. "I see you," she said.

"See this!" It was Thor, whirling Mjölnir into a humming circle. Dómhildr turned. The hammer collided a fearsome blow across her face, tearing her body upwards and crashing it down to the rocky ground. A massive hind leg kicked in the air, the five toes splayed as if searching for traction. Then she was moving, flipping onto her limbs and running, as fluid as a bolt of greased blacksilver. She zipped into the surrounding circle of fog without dislodging a mote of air. Silence thundered in her wake.

"Loki! Keep removing the mists—don't let her hide in them," Thor said, pointing to the approaching fog. Loki nodded and repeated the spell, dispelling more of the icy cover. A flash of her uncovered tail whipped as it followed her into another batch of mist. Thor growled his frustration.

"Come and face us, dragon!" Thor shouted, holding Mjölnir aloft. "You are not the coward the stories say—come meet us in battle."

Dómhildr exploded from the mist from behind them and charged at Thor, roar vibrating in Loki's bones. The god of Thunder was ready; as she yawned her jaws open he spun around and clouted her alongside the head with enough force to knock her to the side. She rolled several times, too slight in body to withstand the power of the hammer. When she returned to her feet she shook her head and snorted a black spray. Her exposed teeth shifted in a leer as she snarled at him, the scales across her shoulders lifting and rattling like a wolf's hackles, her pupils thin and slitted, nostrils flared wide. Then she was gone again, swallowed into the frozen mists of Niffelheim. Loki continued to remove the fog, but all he knew he was doing was displacing it. He could feel it creeping up along his neck. He shifted stance. He felt the dragon's presence before he felt her steamy breath fan his cheek.

"Ever feel you did not belong, little god?" she asked, soft and vast. "Alone?"

Loki whirled, green dagger slashing, but Dómhildr was gone. Without keeping leaving his gaze from the mists he began to back away.

"Loki, do not listen to her!" Thor said.

"Then I suggest you start killing her quickly, brother," Loki said, gritting his teeth.

"Yes, kill me quickly," a disembodied voice said. Loki and Thor both spun to the source, Thor with Mjölnir, Loki with his magicked blades.

"Then show yourself," god of Thunder shouted.

The brothers had a glow as warning before flames roared towards them. They threw themselves down to the frozen ground and only a hasty-placed shield on Loki's part saved them from being roasted. A black shape replaced the red flames and Loki found himself flying in the air from a mighty clout. He crashed to the ground and lay there, grunting. He looked up to see Thor yell as the she-dragon's claws slashed through his armor as if it were flimsy gold leaf. Thor staggered, blood pouring from diagonal wounds. The dragon pounced in a manner reminiscent of cats on wounded birds, and Loki, for the briefest moment, could do nothing but watch as the black beast took his brother up in her jaws and heave him high in the air. He watched as Thor twisted, hammer held high and, in a feat of extraordinary strength, threw Mjölnir at his enemy. The hammer smashed Dómhildr's forearm and Loki heard the bones crack. The dragon screamed. She reared and snatched Thor from out of the sky. Between her black teeth the golden-haired god seemed puny; he punched her in the eye and she let go, churring. By the time Thor returned to land, he was bleeding from a dozen places. Loki ran to his side while Dómhildr retreated under the cover of the thickening fog.

"Not bad," Thor said before Loki could rebuke him for taunting the dragon. He winced and sat up. Loki hurried to remember a healing spell, but Thor stopped him with a bloody hand.

"Do not worry," Thor said, grinning, eyes alight from the battle. Bloody, bruised, dirty, he was in his element. Frost clung to his hair and eyelashes. For a moment, Loki saw him as a king.

"Believe me, I'm not," he said dryly, though he kept a sharp eye on his brother as he helped him to his feet.

"So what did she say to you, back there?" Thor asked.

Loki eyed the mists. "Shouldn't we be focusing on other—"

For the second time in three minutes Loki was swept off his feet. The world became a tumble of scales, scorching breath, and fog. He hit the ground with enough force to clack his teeth together and almost amputated the tip of his tongue. He skidded for several more feet before coming to a stop. Dimly he could hear his brother shouting for him _loki, loki! brother, can you hear me? loki! _but they were faint and there was a high ringing in his ears. When he touched an ear his fingers came back red and bloody. Grimacing, Loki pulled himself to his feet and conducted a quick healing spell. The ringing fell away but the fog in front of his eyes remained. He froze as he sensed the she-dragon around him.

.s.

"I've never seen your kind so diminutive," I say, partly to see how he reacts to my obtuse words, partly to see him jump. I'm disappointed: the pale god keeps himself still, as if not to waste any energy on pointless movements. He stares forward, no doubt trying to pin point my location. I do not give him the satisfaction. I circle, using the mists around me, keeping as silent as shadow. Odinson is calling for his _brother_, sounding increasingly frustrated. I milk it for all it is worth to soothe the raging pain blossoming across my body. My front leg is broken and it follows me like a stick of living meat. There are other pains but I ignore them. I have the Jötun alone at last. What better way to wound Odin than to help ruin the camaraderiebetween his son and this creature? I know I cannot stand against the might of Mjölnir; already my instincts are crying at me to flee, to run, to save myself. But I cannot. I will not run this time so I can be hunted again. I bare my teeth at the silent frost giant. It is no lie: I have never seen his kind so small. He is smaller than even most Asgardians.

His silence irks me. "Have you no tongue in your head?" I ask. Whether he is naturally this pale or from fright, I cannot tell. His enchantment is a strong one; only Odin could have cast it. I sneer. I will not tell him outright his true nature: it would sound too incredible, and he would cast my words out as easily as Asgardians cast away moderation. No. I must weave him small truths, small enough to wiggle in his ear and take root in his heart. One cannot ignore their true selves. He may even suspect something not quite right with himself.

"What would you have me say?" he asks, bored, nonchalant. But I see the way his eyes flit like hunting falcons to pierce the grip of Niffelheim and how tense his shoulders are beneath the leather and armor. Though he is not as powerful as the Odinson, I know his strength lies in trickery and deception. I can sense the magic around him like a spice, hot and buzzing, as green as spritefire. No, I will not kill him: he is to be my legacy.

"You never answered my question, little god," I reply, still circling. "Your silence will not save you."

I watch as my words sink in, but the Jötun's—Loki's—face is unmovable. It is as if made from glass, and whatever I see is the faint reflection of what I want to perceive. I feel time is slipping between my claws; the Odinson is roaring now, using the damned hammer to draw lightening from the sky. Storm clouds thicken above us. The acrid scent of ozone prickles at my awareness.

"If this is a tactic to save your skin, it's a poor one," he says, his tone expressionless. For an odd reason he seems calmer. He stands upright, poised, as if he were a king of Asgard. I grin: a Jötun will never rule the golden throne.

"You know what I speak is true," I say, daring to come close, close enough to rip his head off his shoulders if I so desired. My breath fans his hair and crystallizes on his armor. I deliver the wound that will outlast me. "Deep within your heart, you know what I say is true."

"If you're going to strike, I suggest doing it now," the pale god says, and in that no-voice I sense an imbalance within him, the first makings of a war that would eventually tear him and those around him apart. I do as he says: I flash out towards him, aiming to bowl him over, but in a refraction of light he vanishes and I hit empty air. I coil into myself, hissing, suddenly furious that I lost him, but I have little time to rage when the first strike of lightening sizzles the ground inches from my foreleg. I rear back, snarling in fear, as the mists are suddenly cleared.

Loki is several meters away, his hands returning to his side after completing the spell. Thor is with him. Lightening envelopes Mjölnir and a bolt of white-hot lightening arcs towards me and the rending agony is blinding. My muscles contract in a thousand fires and my jaws lock together. I barrel forward, unseeing, anything to end the agony. Another strike, closer this time, knocks me over. The living meat of my broken forearm jars against the ground and I scream against the white torture. I lash out, kicking, and I feel a meaty collision. My sight returns. I heave upwards, ichor dripping in my nose, down my mouth. I taste my own blood, my own death. I have struck the Odinson, but it is the Jötun who strikes now; his magic sings in the air and suddenly there is a crushing weight on my chest, as if all of Yggdrasil rested its roots on me. I gasp, heaving for breath. Saliva splatters to the ground below and shatters into ice. I lower myself to the ground, mouth agape, eyes locked onto my killer. His brow is furrowed in the concentration as he maintains the spell, jaws tight. I whip my tail at him but he disappears again; he was just an illusion. I can scarcely draw breath. Cold fingers grip around my struggling heart, as unyielding as Loki's spell.

_So this is to die. _I try to smile, but my mouth is not working. Pain is floating away from me and I feel myself drift on a hazy gray fog far beyond the steppes of Niffelheim. Soon I will be beyond Odin's reach, beyond all of theirs. I will be soon one with the nothing, one of the dead, and all I want to do is laugh, laugh at the irony, at Odin, at the way the Odinson is regarding me from beneath golden lashes.

"I see you," I say, and I watch as Thor raises Mjölnir and

.s.

Thor was quiet as he stood over Dómhildr's carcass. He hardly glanced over as Loki emerged at last from the mists, the sweat that had beaded his forehead now frost. Compared to the god of Thunder he was in pristine condition, with only a small cut on his forehead and some scratches on his shoulder armor. He stopped beside his brother and followed Thor's gaze. The dragon's mangled face was still, her mouth stretched as wide as it could go in an eerie grin. Her dead eyes seemed to regard both of them, but Loki knew it wasn't possible. Her élan was well and truly gone.

"I wonder what she saw that made her smile so," Thor said, so softly it was as if he were speaking to himself. Loki grunted.

"It's a little late to ask her now," he said.

Thor smiled with his eyes. "I suppose you're right, brother," he said. "As it was, I'm glad the battle's won. She spoke too much for my taste."

Loki couldn't help himself and in an odd good mood, said, "Really? Because I remember you saying how excellent it was that she could speak."

Thor laughed but broke off to nurse several cracked ribs. He grinned at Loki's sigh of consternation.

"See? Now are you not glad you accompanied me than remain with your books?"

Loki smiled with his mouth and retreated a step to allow Thor access to the silent dragon at their feet. As the knife flashed and blood, no longer pressurized by arterial flow, pooled to the icy ground below, he remembered his desire to taste it. His stomach knotted at the black liquid and rising metallic smell and decided he would forgo the knowledge of birdspeech. He ignored the gristly sawing sounds coming from Thor's knife and regarded the rest of the sinuous black body. She had been a monstrous creature, fit for nightmares, and now that the battle had passed and his heartbeat was returning to its steady pulse he remembered they would have to return to face Odin. His strange good mood vanished and his lips tightened. The familiar ache, small and bitter and unmovable, churned within him. Why would he be more comfortable in the icy realm of Niffelheim than in the golden halls of Asgard? The dark-haired god tried to shake the oddness from his mind and blamed it on Dómhildr. She had intentionally singled him out to toy him with _your silence will not save you_ words.

"It's a pity we cannot bring the rest of her," Thor said, hands-to-elbows slathered in ichor. He had wrapped the head in his cape and had it slung over his shoulder. He glanced at Loki. "Want something from her?"

With the daintiness of a stalking cat Loki drew over and, pulling out one of his magicked blades, proceeded to dig out her left eyetooth. After some working it popped out, root and all. It lay in his hand like a small blade dagger, as lustrous as polished obsidian despite the dead Niffelheim light. He clenched it tightly, once, then stowed it safely away.

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_fin_

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End file.
